"Look at me, Mike," I said, lifting his chin to make his eyes meet mine. "Trust me, will you? You've got to talk to me about these things. I can't read your mind."

Mercer stood behind me, resting his hand on my sore shoulder. "Finish your cocktails, folks. Have to make a stop at the ER."

I assumed that meant a sexual assault victim had been admitted and Mercer was tagged for the interview. "A rape?"

"Nope. Our friend Andrew Tripping is being treated for multiple stab wounds."

"Is he-?"

"He's going to live. Out of danger, just a few holes in his back."

"Bellevue?"

"Nope. New York Hospital."

York Avenue and Sixty-eighth Street. My neighborhood, not Tripping's.

We each threw some bills on the table to cover the drinks and dinner. The rain had stopped but the wet pavement still glistened against the headlights of the oncoming traffic as we weaved our way north and east to the hospital entrance.

The triage nurse was surprised to see us, particularly once we displayed our identification shields to her. She tipped her head in the direction of a small cubicle that was separated from her station by a green curtain. "He's been sedated. Let me check. I'm not sure it's a good idea to try to talk to him now."

She walked away and I whispered to Mercer, "I'm not sure it's a good idea for us to talk to him at all. He's represented by counsel and he's supposed to show up in Moffett's part tomorrow morning to take a plea."

"I can ask him about the stabbing, can't I? This time, he's in as a victim."

"Check with the nurse. Wouldn't you think he's already been interviewed? I assume he came in here by ambulance after a 911 call."

I walked out to the waiting area while Mike and Mercer entered the cubicle. They were with the patient almost fifteen minutes before they came back to me.

Mike was shaking his head. "I don't know what to make of him. He's a nutcase to begin with, isn't he?"

"Diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic."

"So people are always after him, right?"

"Most of the time."

"In case you didn't have enough to worry about, Mr. Tripping was on his way to try to find where you live, Coop."

"But, why?"

"Guess he just couldn't wait until tomorrow morning. I didn't throw him any questions about your case, I just asked what happened this evening."

"What'd he say?"

"He's a little incoherent. I don't know if that's him or the drugs. Mumbling all kinds of conspiracy theories. The lawyers are out to get him, there are terrorists after him, the CIA wants him dead, and he's never gonna see his kid again. Now which of those make sense?" Mike asked.

"Don't I wish I knew. Why me?" I said. "That's the only thing I'm concentrating on at the moment."

"He's telling us he wants you to put him in jail. That's why he's looking for you."

"Happy to help," I said. "But all he needs to do is show up in court to get that done. I don't like this one bit. And who's following him while he's looking for me? Who does he say attacked him?"

Mercer waved his hand in a circle. "Wasn't sure, couldn't see, can't describe-"

"Well, that's ridiculous. He claims he used to be a CIA agent, for chrissakes."

"You didn't do any better last night with your attacker," Mike said.

I flapped around for an answer but had none. "What does the doctor say? How serious is it?"

"Not very," said Mercer. "In fact, the resident's got the chart all marked up for psych observation. He won't rule out that the stab wounds may be self-inflicted."

"Why?"

"There are a lot of small jabs in the upper back. Nothing life-threatening, nothing terribly lethal, and all are high enough that you could reach them yourself with a knife."

"Great. This is a surefire way for him to buy a little more time before he bites the bullet and takes the guilty plea. There must be a reason he wants to stay out of jail."

"That's not what he's saying tonight, Alex. He's telling us that jail is the only place he thinks his life is safe."

29

"How did it get to be ten-thirty?" I asked Mike and Mercer, as they followed me into my apartment after we left the hospital. "Somebody fix me a drink while I check my messages."

They went to the kitchen while I went to the bedroom to put on jeans and check the answering machine. There were a few personal calls, Jake among them, and a rather cool voice mail from Peter Robelon.

"It's Peter, Alex. Just had a call from the emergency department at New York Hospital. Andrew Tripping was assaulted tonight. They're going to treat and release him, but I don't think he's going to be in any shape for court tomorrow. I'm going to ask for an adjournment," he said, explaining the reasons why. "And Alex, keep your cops away from Andrew. This has nothing to do with your case, okay?"

By the time I got to the den, the guys had poured the drinks, made themselves comfortable, and turned on the Yankees game-which was only in the fifth inning because of an initial rain delay. I had lost my partners to the pennant race, so I stretched out on the sofa and enjoyed my scotch.

When I put the two of them out the door at midnight, Mercer arranged to pick me up and take me to the office, and to be there for the plea proceedings.

We walked into Judge Moffett's courtroom together at nine-thirty sharp. The lawyers for the child welfare agency and the foundling hospital had beaten us to the part, but everyone else was late. I didn't appreciate all my adversary's conversations with Moffett that had been conducted out of my presence, so I decided not to tell the judge about the stabbing incident ex parte.

Fifteen minutes later, the court officer held open the door and Peter Robelon walked in, pushing Andrew Tripping in a wheelchair. Graham Hoyt was a step or two behind, carrying Robelon's trial folders.

I rolled my eyes at Mercer and waited for the clerk to call the case into the calendar.

"What have we here, Mr. Robelon? A little accident?"

"I wish that were the case, Your Honor. Unfortunately, it's a lot more serious than that. My client was attacked last night-a vicious street crime-repeatedly stabbed in the back in a senseless act of violence."

"You know about this, Alexandra?" the judge asked.

"I don't think it's quite as serious as it looks, Your Honor."

"Now Ms. Cooper's a doctor, too," Robelon said. "Mr. Tripping was released from the hospital at two o'clock this morning. He's in great pain, and he's got a schedule of follow-up medical care that has to be kept. He-he can't even get out of this chair."

"That's ridiculous, Judge. He's got some superficial wounds in his upper back. I know all about this. If you'd just order him out of the chair, he's perfectly able to stand up and go forward with the plea that counsel and I have discussed."

Moffett pointed his gavel at me and shook it. "The last time I tried that, young lady, at the direction of one of your buddies, I was censured by the appellate court."

I had struck the wrong chord. Years ago, in an incident that had made tabloid headlines, cops had been pulling the leg of one of my rookie colleagues. The perp being arraigned was a notorious career criminal, who had frequently been a malingerer and faked diseases to avoid judicial proceedings. The night he was brought up on charges of homicide, the arresting officer insisted to the assistant district attorney that despite his protestations, the killer could get out of his wheelchair and stand before the court.

The prosecutor passed the message along to the judge, neither of them knowing that the victim's brother had just broken the defendant's kneecaps with a golf club. Moffett barked at the guy to stand up, five or six times, threatening to hold him in contempt if he refused. When the man tried to stand, he collapsed on the floor of the courtroom, and the Legal Aid Society brought a complaint against Moffett that almost caused him to be denied reappointment.